


The Moondial Magicks

by Lunamionny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Deception, F/M, Infidelity, Mild Smut, Teenage Tom Riddle, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunamionny/pseuds/Lunamionny
Summary: Hermione has careened backwards through the decades, intent on changing the horrific future she has come from. The ancient Charms of the Moondial Magicks reveal the task she must carry out in order to do so, but she was not prepared for it to be such a seemingly impossible undertaking.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50
Collections: Charms: 2020 Round Two





	The Moondial Magicks

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [TheSlytherinCabal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSlytherinCabal/pseuds/TheSlytherinCabal) in the [DBQ2020Round2](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DBQ2020Round2) collection. 



> Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R. and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended.  
> The theme for this round of the competition was Charms and my chosen pairing was Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle.  
> Comments/reviews are encouraged by The Slytherin Cabal's Admin Team on all stories in Death By Quill, but comments left by readers are set to be moderated by story authors until the end of the competition in order to protect participants' anonymity.  
> Thank you to my beta for their time and help.

**_31st August, 1943_ **

Dumbledore is sitting at his desk in his office at Hogwarts, reading a rather horrific report in a Muggle newspaper about so-called ‘Nazi death camps’, when a there is a violent burst of white smoke and out of apparently nowhere – although Dumbledore knows it must be  _ somewhere  _ \- a young woman materialises in front of him, turns precariously on the spot and collapses to the floor. 

With cautious curiosity, Dumbledore picks up his wand, rounds his desk and peers down at the intruder _. _ She blinks up at him, dazed and disoriented. Interestingly, her unusual clothes are peppered with ominous stains – dirt, ash and the dulled red of dried blood. Her face, which is framed with wild curls, is similarly smeared. A brass object hangs about her neck, the centre of which is only just slowing its frantic spinning. 

All these observations lead Dumbledore to one very likely hypothesis. 

“Welcome,” he states in an amiable tone, reaching out to take the girl's hand and helping her stand. “I am Albus Dumbledore. But I suspect you already know that. I would be most grateful if you would be so kind as to introduce yourself. And also oblige me by informing me of where you have come from and, possibly more importantly,  _ when  _ you are from?” 

The dazed look in the girl’s eyes changes to one of determination, and she answers him calmly and perfunctorily: “Hermione Granger. From the transfiguration teacher’s office at Hogwarts School. And – the second of May, 1998.” 

* * *

It is easier for Hermione so show Dumbledore her memories using the Pensieve. In the liquid fog formed by her tears, he witnesses what Tom Riddle is to become, the dark wizard’s victory at the Battle of Hogwarts, and the deaths of her friends. The latter memories are still fresh in Hermione’s mind – the light dying from Harry’s eyes, the gaping wound in Ron’s face, Ginny’s burning body. 

Hermione waits patiently for Dumbledore to see how she, in a fit of rage and despair, ran from the Great Hall just before Voldemort had seized full control of the castle, found the time-turner in McGonagall’s office – it had never been destroyed after all, and Hermione had always suspected as such – and used illicit charms and ancient runic magic to travel more than fifty years into the past. 

“So you have come to the past to change the future?” Dumbledore asks once he’s exhausted her memories and sits back down at his desk. 

“Yes,” Hermione answers defiantly. 

Although this Dumbledore is fifty-five years younger than the Dumbledore Hermione knows, he wears the same assessing, shrewd expression. 

“Alas, Miss Granger, these are changes that are not ours to make,” he says regretfully. “You have contravened magical and metaphysical law by travelling so far back in time in the first place. Who knows what has already been changed by the events of the last twenty minutes, since you have appeared here? I understand your sorrow at your friends’ deaths, but we must not meddle further with the natural course of events.” 

Hermione had been prepared for this obstruction and, as she scrabbles about in her mind for a coherent argument, her gaze falls on a copy of  _ The Guardian _ lying on Dumbledore’s desk. 

“The Holocaust,” she states, nodding at the report of suspected concentration camps. “That’s what it will come to be called – six million people systematically killed as a result of blind hatred. Of one group's conviction of their superiority over others. Voldemort’s atrocities will be  _ worse  _ if he secures power.” Something flickers in Dumbledore’s eyes and Hermione knows he is doubting, re-thinking, recalibrating. She remembers his biography, remembers the tragic death of his sister, killed by a stray  curse . “You must do this. For the greater good – but for the real,  _ genuine  _ greater good this time.” 

There is a twitch of his lips, a subtle rise of his eyebrows and Hermione waits, wondering if she has overstepped the mark. But he finally gives a short, imperceptible nod. 

“Okay, Miss Granger. We will do what we can to stop this from happening. But we must change as little as possible – something extremely subtle but significant, such that its effects will ripple gently through time, the only difference being that Tom Riddle is  _ not  _ victorious at that final battle, and instead perishes. Otherwise, who knows what else we will change – you may not even be born, Harry  _ Potter  _ may not be born.”

“But how on earth can we know what to do? What to change?” she asks, despair clutching at her heart. 

The future headmaster studies her with calm consideration before asking earnestly, “Have you ever come across a set of charms called the Moondial Magicks?” 

A shiver prickles at Hermione’s spine. The Charms of the Moondial Magicks are shrouded in mystery and poorly understood. “A bit. From a book on illegal charms I read once...that I got from the Restricted Section.” 

Dumbledore nods in acknowledgement. “People have often sought to foretell the future but alas, it is not possible. For there are an infinite number of futures – an impossible number of possibilities. However, with a combination of the Moondial Charms and a Magical Moondial, one can view many of these possible futures, and learn what needs to happen for a particular set of events to come to pass. The use of the Charms has been outlawed, for obvious reasons, and they are notoriously hard to conjure, even more so now, as their use has dwindled through the centuries...but I think they are our best option.” 

“But there are only six Magical Moondials in the world, all in different countries, and we cannot use them - it’s against the laws of those states.” 

Dumbledore shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips. “The seventh one is not lost. It sits in the grounds of this very school, in one of the walled gardens beyond the greenhouses, its presence a secret to only but a few.” 

* * *

The door to the walled garden is hidden behind a blanket of dense Vicious Vines which shrink back at Dumbledore's presence, allowing him to unlock the door and for them to enter the garden unencumbered. It is night time, but the sky is clear and there is a waning gibbous moon that provides some light as Dumbledore leads Hermione down a gravel path. 

They come to a stop at the centre of the garden where a granite moondial stands on a stone plinth. It is rather unassuming in size, weathered and mildewed, but Hermione can sense the magic that radiates from it – it is so strong it is almost visible, a light shimmer that ripples in the air around it. 

Dumbledore looks at Hermione, and she thinks it might be the first time she has seen any hint of apprehension in his face. 

“As you will be the one influencing events Miss Granger, you must place your hand on the style,” Dumbledore instructs. 

Hermione does as he says and clasps the stone style, noticing how it causes her hand to tingle strangely. Dumbledore lifts his wand, points it at the carved surface of the moondial and starts murmuring incantations that sound alien to Hermione’s ears. 

Slowly, a thick white fog rises from the style and Hermione notices, to her fascination, that images appear in it, although she cannot make out what they are. She assumes that only Dumbledore, speaker of the charms, is able to see them clearly. The teacher continues his murmurings as he stares fixedly at the images in the fog, an intense look of concentration on his face, and Hermione surmises that the Moondial Magicks are showing Dumbledore a myriad of possible futures. 

Finally, Dumbledore falls silent, lowers his wand and the fog fades away. He pauses, staring at the space where the images had been moments before. 

“I understand what must be done,” he states gravely. “The question is whether you think you are able to carry out such a task, Miss Granger.” His eyes shift down towards Hermione, piercing and penetrating, as she withdraws her hand from the cold style. “In your timeline, Tom Riddle knew that Severus Snape had betrayed him. He knew the man was still in love with Lily Evans, and hence would always be faithful to her and her son. However, if instead Voldemort always believes that Severus is loyal to him, it will set about a chain of events which will lead to his downfall. 

“The Voldemort from your timeline took too much stock in love. In short, he respected the love Snape had for Lily. We need, therefore, for Tom Riddle to  _ shun  _ love - to think of it as a weakness and hence believe that Severus, one of his genuine followers in the beginning and someone he respected – as much as someone like Riddle can respect another – would not be weak enough to allow himself to fall so deeply in love. 

“If Tom Riddle were to fall in love and then,  _ most importantly _ , have his heart devastatingly broken, he will turn his back on the sentiment forever. He will not engage with the idea of it ever again, but only dismiss it as something that weakens one. Voldemort will not consider that Snape can continue to love Lily long after her death, and therefore he will continue to trust him.” 

Dumbledore looks at Hermione sombrely, and her stomach turns nauseatingly as she guesses what he is about to suggest. “Miss Granger, if you really want to change the future you have come from, it seems that you will need to make Tom Riddle fall powerfully in love with you. Then you must break his heart irrevocably.”

Hermione’s mind recoils at the idea - even if she could accomplish such a task, the thought of having to ingratiate herself with Tom Riddle, to flirt and – well, the thought of it repulses, and scares, her. But then she thinks of Harry’s lifeless body, and of what the world could become with Voldemort holding power, and she pushes her reservations aside. 

“I’ll do it,” she states with a determined finality. 

* * *

Dumbledore and Hermione devise a guise – that Hermione is a student transferred from Australia. Her name is changed to ‘Hecate’, her appearance altered, and she begins her sixth year of Hogwarts the next day. 

It does not start well – the Hat insists on Sorting her into Gryffindor. Hermione had hoped to go to Slytherin – it would have helped her get closer to Riddle, or at least get his attention. But despite Hermione’s pleas to the Hat, it maintains that her blood is just too Muggle. 

After Hermione takes a seat at the Gryffindor table, her eyes glide subtly over the Slytherin one. Her heart stutters as she locks eyes with a boy – a young man – with dark wavy hair and even darker eyes. She knows without doubt it is him. He does not break her gaze but instead continues to study her with a calculated, concentrated curiosity. It seems that being a member of the same house was not needed to get Tom Riddle’s attention after all. 

She wonders how to respond - what would quip his interest the most - and decides on a barely-there but confident half-smile before shifting her eyes to the girl next to her - a prefect and Quidditch fanatic with a lilting Scottish accent who goes by the name of Minnie, “short for Minerva,” the girl clarifies. 

It only takes a few days for Hermione to learn that many are drawn to Riddle’s dark charisma and seductive charm; that he is admired and liked by students and teachers alike. But then there are others who are fascinated by him in a different way, in the way that Muggles are fascinated by a car crash they pass on the motorway – they want to look and know more, but sense it would be dangerous to get too close.

Dumbledore manipulates it so that Hermione is paired up with him in their first Charms lesson. When they are asked to do their first exercise, Riddle turns to her, and Hermione immediately understands his allure and appeal: he is extraordinarily handsome – in an intimidatingly flawless, perfect way – but there is something more than that, something in his manner that draws her in and makes her want to stay close to him. He looks at her with cool dispassion. 

“Hecate,” he croons the name softly and slowly, drawing out the vowels and causing something pleasant to pulse in her nerves. “Hello.” 

“Hi,” she replies, releasing a giggle, the flirtatiousness of which is false, the nervousness of which not. 

* * *

Over the following weeks, Hermione tries her best to win his heart, remembering all the advice that was passed back and forth in her girls’ dormitory - she makes the most of her physical assets, as Parvati had regularly advised, suppresses her nerves and flirts shamelessly, as Lavender lived by, but ensures she is witty and playful too, as Ginny had often suggested. 

Riddle continues to notice her, even goes out of his way to spend lunchtime with her on a few occasions, but it isn’t enough. So, three weeks into the school term, Hermione goes to Dumbledore, seeking help. 

“You have been hiding your intelligence from him due to a fear that it will intimidate him. But it is your  _ intelligence  _ that will capture his heart. Do not conceal it from him. In short, be yourself,” the wizard counsels. 

And so she is – she wears her skill and knowledge proudly – and it works. Tom Riddle’s casual curiosity in the new girl from Australia changes to respect and genuine interest. Four weeks later, he asks her to ‘step out’ with him – the era’s term for ‘dating’ – and it is a triumph. Dumbledore is pleased. 

The first time they kiss, they are walking in the grounds at twilight. Riddle stops suddenly and turns to look at her, an intense, unreadable glint in his eyes, before reaching forward, cupping her jaw firmly in his hand and pressing his lips to hers.

As the kiss deepens, Hermione cannot ignore the way her body responds to him – the warm flush that rises to her cheeks, the way all her nerves seem to dance just for him, the rush of wet heat between her legs. It makes her finally admit to something she has been trying to ignore for weeks – that she has grown to want him too. Or at least, a part of her has. 

Riddle is dangerously attractive, yes, but he is also brilliant. And part of Hermione is drawn to that brilliance. There is a darkness within all of us, she remembers reading once, and some of the brightest lights have the darkest shadows. It seems that Tom Riddle is tugging at the dark shadows in her heart, in an unwitting attempt to set them free. 

* * *

It is only a fortnight or so later when they have sex for the first time and, when they do, Riddle looks at her like he wants to possess her. He fucks her like he wants to own every square inch of her body. The dark part of Hermione's soul is tantalised by that. It manifests in how she folds into Riddle’s embrace, wraps her legs tightly around his waist as he drives into her – a desperate passion burning in his eyes – how her core becomes needy and desperate for his touch, how she cries out his name, animalistic and wanton. 

The light in Hermione, however, fights back against these shadows. It sees the cold inhumanity that occasionally glints in Riddle’s eyes and she reminds herself of the suffering that could rain down on the wizarding world from Voldemort’s storms of hate and ruthless quest for power. 

But even with her status as ‘Riddle’s witch’, even with the kissing and the sex, she knows he does not love her enough – not fully, not purely, like she needs him to. She requires something else to ensure his heart is totally hers. 

It comes one evening, a week or so before the school is due to break for the Christmas holidays. She finds Riddle sitting along the shore of the Great Lake, staring out at the surface as it ripples in the breeze. 

She sits down beside him and starts to stroke the hair at the nape of his neck, something she’s learnt he loves. But her hand freezes in alarm and wonder as she sees his bloodshot eyes and the tear tracks that glisten on his cheek. Tom Riddle has been crying. 

“What’s wrong, Tom?” she asks, forcing her voice to exude gentleness. 

Words spill forth from Riddle then – he says that he is thinking of having to go back to the orphanage for Christmas, of how he has always hated it there, how he has never felt like he truly belongs anywhere. 

Hermione sees something she never thought existed – a softness in Riddle, a vulnerability. This boy is not a monster. Not yet, anyway. 

She comforts him, by that wide expanse of water, holds him and whispers words of solace and sympathy in his ear. 

“You’ll never leave me, will you?” he asks. “Like  _ they  _ did? My parents?” 

It’s then she sees it, glinting in the low sunlight – the Gaunt ring on his finger, yet to house a piece of his soul. This Riddle has already researched his ancestry, has already caused the death of Myrtle Warren by opening the Chamber of Secrets. Any empathy Hermione has started to feel for him bleeds away, and she lies convincingly when she says, “I promise.” 

He smiles back at her – a rare, genuine smile, full of gratitude – and it’s then that she knows she has him. She has his heart in her grip. She remembers Harry’s dead eyes, Ron’s ripped face and Ginny’s charred body. 

She has his heart in her grip and she’s ready to squeeze it until it stops beating.

* * *

She chooses Abraxas. She’s aware the boy has grown fond of her, but what is more important is that Riddle trusts him, and hence the sense of betrayal – the heartbreak – will be stronger.

It doesn’t take much to seduce Abraxas – a few glasses of firewhiskey, some flirting, a deliberate touch here, a coy smile there. It is enough for him to grab her, kiss her, and back her into the wall. Hermione reciprocates his advances and reaches down to unbutton his trousers.

She has chosen the place carefully – the Astronomy Tower where she knows Riddle comes at this time, on this particular night of the week. Abraxas is inside her, pounding into her with passionate thrusts, when Riddle happens upon them. 

He cries out, a sound of rage and despair, and slices his wand violently through the air. Abraxas flies away from Hermione and lands on the floor, unconscious. Riddle stares at her, his whole body shaking, and Hermione recognises the look of hate and vitriol in his eyes - recognises it as the one that the Voldemort from her own time wore. Hermione sees how any softness that Riddle had is dissipating before her eyes; she can see the hardness in him grow, see the birth of the monster he will become. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, and it is both a truth and a lie.

His face contorts in fury. 

“You are  _ nothing _ .  _ We  _ were nothing,” he proclaims, his voice dripping in bitterness. “I can see that now. Loving you made me weak. Made me vulnerable. Love –  _ affection  _ – it will only make me feeble, and will thwart my ambitions. I will never again succumb to it!” 

* * *

Dumbledore uses the Moondial Magicks once more to see how the future will now play out. 

“It is done,” he concludes as the white fog evaporates. “You have succeeded in your task, Miss Granger. There will still be tragedy, but this is the best we can hope for without altering the fabric of time to a damaging degree. There will still be the deaths of innocents, but the light will be victorious.” 

And so Hermione prepares to return to the second May 1998; the story will be given out that she had to return to Australia. As she turns the time-turner once more and careens forwards through the years she feels relief and happiness, but something more too. 

She has changed the past – subtly but significantly – and in so doing, the past has changed her too. Tom Riddle has awakened a darkness in her, a darkness that refuses to rest. It laps at her soul, seeking stimulation, and Hermione has yet to decide whether she will quieten it – smother it with her light – or let it grow wild in the shadows of her heart.


End file.
